


Poet

by paradoxicalspecificity



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Feels, Grantaire sleeps through the final battle, M/M, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxicalspecificity/pseuds/paradoxicalspecificity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The song can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A5NIoWpkdj4</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poet

Poetry was never been one of Grantaire’s interests, he was one for art, more than anything. There was something about painting that helped, he could paint his emotions, paint a whole story with only three colours… But as much as he had listened to Jehan reading the poems he wrote in his spare time, poems about love and beauty, written on paper, on the walls by the boy’s bed since he was young, on every inch of skin still visible when he was fully clothed. It never made sense. They were just meaningless words. They were black and white, laid upon a simple sheet… How was one to find the correct combination of words to express what they were feeling anyway? It wasn’t possible.

 

He had kept that idea his whole life. He painted his way through the up and the terrible downs, but he soon started to lose inspiration again. He would sit and stare at a blank canvas, sometimes force himself to move, paint something at least, but they never stayed.

 

It was then that the drinking became more of a regular occurrence. He couldn’t paint his feelings anymore, he couldn’t even bring himself to sit in the stool in front of his canvas.

 

He soon became a regular at the Musain, he would find himself sleeping there most nights and it soon felt like a second home. It was somewhere where he could sit, drink some wine and watch the world pass by.

 

It was just another lazy day, too warm by anyone’s standards. He sat in the corner, pain still on his hands, splattered on his sleeves. He had tried again today, he thought he’d had it for a moment, but the painting was soon discarded as usual and he went to sit in his favourite spot.  
  
That’s when he appeared.  
  
Students flooded the Musain, following one shining light. Though he wasn’t the tallest, he stood above them all, glowing through the crowd. He sang of freedom, of revolution, a spark in his eye that Grantaire had never seen. And his beauty, oh that marvelous beauty that stood before him.

Grantaire had sworn until that day that he believed in nothing. But this man. The passion he showed. The way he would light up when someone stood with him. It was something that Grantaire had never seen before in any man, and it was what he soon found himself drawn towards.

 

He watched over the next few weeks from the corner, as they brought out maps, start to plan their future. How could he resist? He had to share his opinion on the matter. Oh, the way those eyes fell on him, they looked so cold but he did everything in that power to earn that look each and every day.

 

It wasn’t hard to notice that Grantaire was in love. He was obsessed.

But Enjolras, well, that was another matter. He was dedicated to a country. He had no woman, he didn’t seem to care for love. France was his top priority. He was cold, but dedicated… And what fine marble he was made of.

 

He made friends with each student who visited the Musain, he would serve them wine as they planned, he would joke and laugh with them. He would earn that same cold look every day by making some sort of comment against what Enjolras was saying, he would tease to the point where he need only open his mouth to get a reaction.

 

It was then that he started painting again. His canvases were littered with red and yellow, trying to get out of the shadow, trying to get just that little bit closer to the light. But as much as he tried, he was trapped. He felt miles away from Enjolras and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t capture the beauty that he saw every day.

 

Even when they brushed shoulders passing each other, it felt as if Grantaire could never reach him.

 

The day that they started the fight was growing closer and closer, Grantaire started sleeping in the back room of the Musain again. He wanted to be with them… With him every step of the way.

 

When the day came, he helped to build the barricade, he helped with the guns and with the wounded… He finally let go of some of the things he had been holding in ever since Enjolras started speak of their plans. Did this really mean a thing? A few students could do nothing… Why were they all out here risking their lives? All he earned was pitying looks and a few glares, he walked away without another word, feeling those blue eyes on him again.

 

It wasn’t noise that woke him the next morning… No, it was the silence. He opened his eyes, the wine from a last night still clouding his vision a little. He groaned,  and stumbled out from the room, rubbing a hand over his face, blinking furiously to clear his vision. Though he wished he hadn’t. His legs almost gave out beneath him as he stared down at his friends, all laid out, some with their eyes still open.

 

He staggered over, shaking his head to himself, only one word escaping his lips. “No… No.” He breathed, eyes soon falling on those blue eyes again. He fell to his knees, hands hovering over the man’s cheek. He daren’t touch.

 

He stayed as long as he could, cold hand held in his own as if he could somehow still be there to support him. As if he could take back every action. He reached, finally bringing himself to close those empty blue eyes, taking a deep breath before finding his voice. “Permets-tu?” He whispered, voice threatening to fail him already.

 

He had stayed there when they took the bodies, he had stayed there with a drink in his hand when they cleaned the blood from the streets… He had stayed sat by the window, staring out at the small part of Paris he could see. He had watched the sun go down and didn’t move an inch until someone came to guide him away.

 

That night was the night everything became clear to him. He started to write. He sat there until the sun rose, going through every sheet of paper until he had it. He ran his fingers over the words gently once the ink had dried. This was everything out on paper. Red and yellow put into black and white… How fitting.

 

He kept the poem with him at all times. He would read through it over and over, re-write it when the paper tore… It made it seem like he was still here, like that beauty stood before him speaking over freedom, of a world reformed. It was as close as he could get, though he would never have an answer to his question.


End file.
